Soon after Simon and his sisters, Talia and Rose, arrive for a week at their grandmother Nanaleen’s house, Simon becomes convinced that the house is haunted. But in Lin Thompson’s second middle grade novel, The House That Whispers, Simon’s deepest fears aren’t things that go bump in the night—they’re all the things he can’t control, such as the possibility that his parents might split up, the way Nanaleen seems to be having more trouble remembering things and the fact that Talia hardly ever talks to him anymore. The walls of Nanaleen’s house may be trying to tell Simon and his family something, but in order to move forward, they’ll all have to find the courage to listen.

The House That Whispers is your second published novel. How was its creative journey different from the journey of The Best Liars in Riverview, your first novel?
The biggest difference was the timeline, honestly. I spent over seven years working on my debut before we sold it—and then The House That Whispers went from an idea to a draft to a final manuscript in about a year total. It was such a wildly different creative experience, but in some ways, all those years I spent working on my first book gave me the tools to be able to write this second one so much more quickly.

It was also incredibly helpful that I got to work with my editor right from the start this time. I was so nervous when I sent her my first draft, which was a complete mess compared to the fairly polished versions she’d read of my first book, but she was able to sort through my jumbled thoughts and gently home in on what I’d written the book about: a kid who feels like too many things in his life are changing all at once, and who’s scrambling to try to control the few things he can.

Tell us about Simon and what’s going on in his life and in his heart as the book opens.
Simon is an 11-year-old trans kid with a big imagination and a lot of energy. At the novel’s start, he and his two sisters are going to spend a week at their grandmother’s house while their parents work through some marital issues at home. Simon is also starting to notice that his grandmother is forgetting things and his older sister is pulling away from him more and more.

With all these things already shifting in his family, Simon has decided that it’s not the right time for him to come out as trans just yet, so he’s been keeping his gender and newly chosen name to himself for now. Whenever the other characters unknowingly misgender him, he fixes the name and pronouns in his head (and on the page) so that the reader, at least, gets to know the real him throughout the story.

How did you develop Nanaleen’s house as both a setting and a character in its own right? Is it based on any real houses that you’ve spent time in?
I knew the feeling I wanted the house to have. Simon’s family has lived there for several generations, and I wanted to convey a sense of weight from that history, from all these lives that have come before and the unexpected places that their stories slip through the cracks.

For the simple logistics, when I realized how important the house itself was going to be, I looked through records of houses built in the same time period and combined a few to make myself a floor plan.

I also took inspiration for a few bits and pieces from the houses of my grandparents on both sides of my family: the dormitory-esque room where Simon and his sisters sleep, the upstairs closet full of old stuffed animals, and the walls and walls of family photographs.

“I was incredibly secretive as a kid, for reasons I couldn’t have articulated back then.”

For a novel with the word whispers in the title, there sure are a lot of secrets that the characters aren’t telling one another. What drew you to creating a story in which so many characters are withholding things? Did any characters reveal any secrets or surprises to you as you drafted?
I think secrets are a theme I’m always drawn to. I was incredibly secretive as a kid, for reasons I couldn’t have articulated back then. Now I can see how that instinct was probably tied to gender discomfort and neurodivergence, but at the time it just felt like I had all of these thoughts and feelings that I couldn’t let anyone else know about because it would change the way they looked at me. I didn’t realize how much that was weighing on me until I started finding people I could comfortably open up to.

But I’m also very interested in secrets within families and that strange dynamic where everyone in the family seems to know about something but no one really talks about it. Simon’s great-aunt Brie definitely surprised me as I was drafting. I knew I wanted to explore some of those unspoken family secrets, but I wasn’t quite sure how, and with Brie, it really felt like I was uncovering pieces of her story and her life as I was writing them.

The novel is set during a pivotal time for Simon’s family, and in some ways, Simon’s parents also function as ghosts within the story: They’re physically absent for much of the novel, but they’re definitely present in Simon and his siblings’ minds. What felt important to you to convey about these dynamics?
I love that description of Simon’s parents as ghosts. Even though they’re not on the page much, their relationship issues really kick-start the story, and the stress of that is always lurking in the back of Simon’s mind. I think it all ties back to those themes of secrecy and the things we don’t talk about. Even as Simon’s parents are struggling, they’re trying to maintain this image for the kids that everything is fine. But Simon and his siblings all know on some level that it isn’t true, and in a way, it’s scarier for them to know that something is wrong without having anyone tell them what. At the same time, Simon spends a lot of the book doing a similar thing—trying to convince both himself and his family that he isn’t bothered by everything that’s happening, even though it’s more and more obvious that he is.

“Too often, when adults talk about ‘protecting’ kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation.”

Simon and his older sister, Talia, are deeply affected as they uncover the story of their great-aunt Brie. What would you say to an adult who thinks that middle grade readers aren’t ready to learn about the hidden and sometimes hurtful queer histories in their own families?
Back when I was a children’s librarian, we talked a lot about how important it was for kids to learn about hard subjects like death or divorce before they encounter them in their own lives. Having that context already in place can be invaluable if or when they do have to navigate those scary times.

I think the same concept applies here. Kids should know that queer people exist and have always existed, and it’s OK to tell them that queer people haven’t always been treated well and that it isn’t fair or right. Kids are going to learn it at some point—they might have already—and it’s so much better for them to hear that message from a trusted adult who can answer questions and help support them through it.

Too often, when adults talk about “protecting” kids from certain things, it really feels like they’re just trying to protect themselves from having a slightly uncomfortable conversation. But if you aren’t talking with your kids about hard topics, that doesn’t mean they aren’t learning about them—it just means that while they’re learning about them, they’re also learning to put their trust somewhere besides you.

Throughout the novel, Simon grapples with the concept of perfection, especially with regard to his understanding of himself and his family. What do you hope young readers take away from his experiences and the realizations he eventually has about this idea?
I hope readers can see that perfection isn’t a real thing. So much of Simon’s focus on perfection is about the external image of it: this false projection of a perfect family or a perfect life. But none of it reflects what’s actually going on internally. And the more Simon and his family focus on making their lives look perfect from the outside, the more they’re neglecting their actual feelings and struggles underneath. Simon himself spends so much energy trying to look happy that he makes himself miserable in the process. But you’re allowed to feel negative emotions, and you’re allowed to acknowledge when you’re having a hard time. Better to be messy and real.

“You’re allowed to feel negative emotions, and you’re allowed to acknowledge when you’re having a hard time. Better to be messy and real.”

What was the most rewarding part of writing this book?
Putting words to Simon’s gender euphoria. I loved getting to write a trans kid who feels so much joy in figuring out who he is, and it was important to me that he keep carrying that joy even as he’s struggling. Now more than ever, I want to get to celebrate what an amazing, happy, beautiful thing it can be to be a trans person.

Read our review of The House That Whispers by Lin Thompson.

What about the book are you most proud of?
It’s such a simple thing, but I’m proud that the reader gets to meet Simon as himself, even before the other characters in the book know his name or gender. It was deeply cathartic to let Simon take charge of how he’s referred to in the story and how the reader knows him. He tells us who he is, and we just get to believe him.

It seems fair to call The House That Whispers a ghost story of sorts. What are some of your favorite ghost stories (in any medium) and why? Have you ever personally had an encounter with something supernatural?
My favorite ghost stories are the ones that seem at least as interested in exploring the characters’ inner journeys as they are in the actual ghosts. One of the inspirations for this book was “The Haunting of Hill House” on Netflix; I love how that show uses horror to explore the characters’ emotions and mental health and the cycles of trauma in the family at its center.

As far as I know, I’ve never had a direct encounter with the supernatural. I did have a bit of a scare while writing this book, though. My home office is in the basement, and sometimes I would be working after dark, and I started hearing these scritch-ing sounds in the walls and shuffling behind the ceiling tiles. As it turned out, we had a mouse infestation! It really felt like the universe was trying to give me a fully immersive writing experience. If there are any actual ghosts in our basement, they don’t seem to want to bother anyone.

Author photo © Katherine-Ouellette

Novelist and poet Robin Gow explores grief, queer identity and one of North America’s most beloved cryptids in Dear Mothman. Noah’s best friend, Lewis, always believed that Mothman, a creature first spotted in West Virginia in 1966, is real. After Lewis dies in a car crash, Noah decides to honor his friend by proving Mothman exists for a sixth-grade science fair project. As Noah seeks the truth about this local legend, he also finds the courage to show his truest self to the world.

Introduce us to Noah and what he’s working through as the novel opens.
Noah lost his best friend, Lewis, a few months earlier. Lewis and Noah shared so much—they were the only trans kids in school, and in many ways Lewis’ boldness made a pathway for Noah to express himself and his identity too. Noah has only recently started to come out to people as trans, so he’s also trying to understand how to share that without Lewis to lean on. Then there’s the question of Mothman. Noah has always been the skeptic of their duo, but without Lewis, he’s finding himself even more curious about Mothman.

Noah’s feelings of loss and grief come through so clearly. As you were writing, what felt like the most important aspects of his emotions to capture and convey to the reader?
I wanted to capture the ways grief is knotted and complicated. One moment we can feel intense despair and sadness. In the next we can find ways to twist those feelings into guilt or even frustration and anger. I thought it was important to show all the different ways Noah’s mind tries to wrap itself around Lewis’ absence and what it means for him and the world around him.

Noah relates to Mothman deeply, and the novel contains many beautiful reflections on the relationships between queerness and monstrousness. Why was it important to you to explore these ideas—and to do so for a middle grade readership?
When I was a middle schooler I didn’t know myself as a queer person. I didn’t have that language, but I always gravitated toward monsters because I could see how they were often misunderstood or mischaracterized by the stories they found themselves in. I wanted to speak to youth who, like me, gravitate towards the strange and the monstrous because we see ourselves in them. Then, also, I hoped to help us question what a monster is. Often monsters are echoes of what a society fears most, and those fears can be unfounded. They are often a version of “fear of the other.”

“Often monsters are echoes of what a society fears most, and those fears can be unfounded.”

How did you first encounter Mothman?
My college friends just generally liked all things supernatural and strange. I was our college Gay-Straight Alliance president and I literally gave a PowerPoint presentation on why cryptids were queer culture. It started with a joke that Nessy was definitely a lesbian.

I was drawn to Mothman specifically because I felt like he was misunderstood. He never does anything mean to people in the stories—he’s just lurking.

Dear Mothman is both epistolary and written in verse. Why did you decide to use these two forms? Why did blending them feel like the best way to tell Noah’s story?
Both forms allow the reader to access Noah’s most personal and often scattered thoughts as he tries to connect with someone (or something, depending on how you think about Mothman). And both poetry and the epistolary form allow space for messy emotions and confessions.

The first draft of the book was actually only written in letters. As I revised, I found moments that worked better as just Noah talking and moments that felt best directed to Mothman. I think having both makes the moments when Noah is reaching out to Mothman even more powerful. Overall, I think verse can really embody the whirling feelings of characters’ coming-of-age moments.

One of the most fun elements of Dear Mothman are Noah’s sketches. They look like something a kid his age would actually draw. How did these visuals come to be part of the book?
One of my favorite things about Mothman and other cryptids is that artists have so many different renditions of them. From the beginning I knew that Noah and Lewis would see those variations online and probably want to add to them. The first page I wrote was the school report Lewis and Noah made about Mothman, and I imagined that drawing it was really exciting for them because it would be a moment to let their imaginations explore what they thought Mothman was like.

Then, as we revised the book, we found more places where Noah might doodle. I drew some idea sketches in places and descriptions in others, and we worked with an illustrator who brought the ideas to life. Rebecca Harry did the drawings, and I think she perfectly captured how Noah would imagine Mothman as a gentle and fun monster. I also think the drawings channel the whimsy and fantasy of the cover art by Tracy J. Lee!

How do you think art can help us channel our feelings and understand ourselves?
As a young person I actually mostly “wrote” in drawings. I made comics and graphic stories before I was writing anything. I am autistic, and I really struggled with writing and reading, especially in elementary school through middle school. Drawing was a space where I could push those struggles with words aside and capture imaginary creatures and worlds. I often draw myself as different genders and species. Drawing felt like the best kind of escape.

Noah meets new friends through LARPing—live-action roleplaying. Tell us about the role that these new friends and LARPing play in Noah’s life and why they’re such an essential part of his story.
In my original drafts of the story, Noah’s friends were just playing pretend. My editor pointed out that kids at this age start to age out of just playing pretend and start to do things like Dungeons & Dragons and LARPing—still playing pretend but in different structures. To Noah, the fact that these kids still use their imaginations to play signals to him that they might be possible friends and allies, because he also loves to dream and imagine.

And things like LARPing and Dungeons & Dragons can be a huge part of queer culture. I mean yes, nonqueer people play them too, but for queer people these games are spaces where we can be ourselves and explore genders and sexualities without the confines and limits of the real world. In my own life, role playing and playing pretend were the first place I got to be my real gender. Even if I didn’t come out until college, I was playing games as a boy in elementary school.

Early in the novel, when Noah is telling Mothman about a conversation he had with his mom, he writes, “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? . . . No one listens to kids or monsters.” That line is going to resonate so powerfully with so many young readers, so I want to ask: How do you think the world would be different if it weren’t true?
I think we would be a more imaginative place. I think so many of the world’s problems persist because we’re forcibly cut off from our imaginations by crushing systems of capitalism and white supremacy. Then we inflict that violence on our youth. Sometimes we do this to try to help them survive and sometimes we do this almost as a punishment. Because we had to go through it.

I reflect on my experiences as a young autistic person in an ableist world. I was often made fun of, harassed and punished by adults and educators for my imagination, for being strange and for questioning what we were told. I learned to hide myself to avoid as much of that harassment as I could. I’ve spent most of my adult life working to reclaim what these systems have tried to beat out of me. This is the truth for so many youths, and at even higher rates for youth of color. I think about where our dreams and imaginations could take us if we gave all youth the space to be creative instead of just trying to survive.

The world needs drastic change, and I think more than any group of people, youth can see that and have the curiosity and questions to bring forth that change.

“I think so many of the world’s problems persist because we’re forcibly cut off from our imaginations.”

Three big-picture questions: What was the most challenging part of writing this book? What was the most rewarding? And what about the book are you most proud of?
The most challenging part was probably carrying the plot through poems. I am a poet-of-center and thus my books often begin almost as character studies with a plot in the background, so it’s something I have to work to bring forward.

The most rewarding, I think, is how I’ve given space to Noah’s gender feelings. It’s sometimes hard to feel like we have space as trans people to have complicated and unsure feelings around gender, but I feel good about how that came through in this book.

I’m proud of how I’ve navigated Mothman as a character and a presence. I struggled with how to end the story and not tie a neat bow but still give the reader a satisfying conclusion. I am someone who genuinely believes in monsters, ghosts and all things unexplained, and I feel proud of how I (I hope) have sustained that mystery and fantasy.

If you were to go searching for any cryptid (besides Mothman, of course), who would you want to look for? Would you want to find them?
I would look for the Squonk or the Jersey Devil. The Squonk is a somewhat lesser-known cryptid of Pennsylvania. He cries all the time and is a kind of wrinkly piglike creature. I have two pet pugs and I feel like he’s not that far from a pug dog . . . so I’d be very happy to find the Squonk.

The Jersey Devil I’m interested in because I think the Pine Barrens are probably the most mythical-feeling place I’ve ever been. It feels like ancient creatures lurk there. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to meet the Jersey Devil though. They seem a bit more frightening, but if given the choice I think I would still want to meet them.

Read our review of Dear Mothman by Robin Gow.